"It's all a matter of… Yes. What exactly?", Mademoiselle Tinfoil said in a glistening voice that often bordered on the doubled edge of irony — not irony in the sense of ironic, more in the sense of containing the element iron to one degree or another…

Like a nugget of copper or aluminum, though not copper or aluminum (or silver for that matter) but iron — Fe — Ferrum. Atomic number 26. It's right there next to…

Anyway, forget it! — What I want to say is that her voice sometimes has a quality that resembles the sound of two metal surfaces gliding along each other, rubbing against each other's non-plastic bellies.

You know what I mean? Right?

Ok. Let's move on:

"It's a matter of finding the bittersweet orange French baguette in the last corner of Mademoiselle Agitato's favorite Korean store," Mister Less-Clue said cluelessly, scratching his big forehead, then his broad nose, then his black twirly mustache.

Mademoiselle Tinfoil stopped the son of a — excuse me — right there… She stopped Mister Less-Clue's elaborate speech by sighing dramatically and pretending to faint in a moment or two.

"Bless you!" Less-Clue exclaimed with subtle pride as he heard the overarching sigh of Mademoiselle Tinfoil.

He was very much used to incorporating a theatrical display of innocence in his overacted demeanor, which was elevated by his manic elaboration of gracious mannerisms that — on further inspection — were tinted in non-transparent sentiments residing in the fields of THE UNKNOWN… (probably)

"Perhaps it's a matter of time," he added in a butter-smooth tone coated with Anturia's finest Coconut-oil after finishing the decoration-process of the Christmas tree situated in Aunt Annie-Amelia-Allison's allied alkaline-water-based, big-bellied and broadly baked husband Bob's house.

Bob was a good fellow.

He was the one who brought the Christmas gifts for Aunt Annie-Amelia-Allison, aka his wife, and her seventeen children, Martha, Gartha, Lartha, Georgey-Boy, Lucy, Elefant, Tim, Tom, Tam, Lyre, Tann, Fidel, Rye, Alicia, Mustard, Opaque and Translucent.

He also repeatedly re-arranged the couches and other furniture with graciously glorious movements. Often to Aunt Annie-Amelia-Allison's annoyance.

"Perhaps it's a matter of putting our resources into containers that suck up precious energy that could be expelled in some other, more constructive form," Mademoiselle Tinfoil exclaimed — jolting herself out of the pretended state of faintish faintness, which she had deemed fatal to Mister Less-Clue's cluelessness.

But the idio — excuse me — the adorable detective didn't even flinch!

What? Didn't I mention that he was a detective?

Hm. Curious.

Curiouser and curiouser!

"Or perhaps the state of affairs is simply due to a matter of exhaustion…" Mister Less-Clue offered in a humbled tone, as he tried to clean the siphon of the sink in the baroquely-decorated bathroom of Bob's royal home.

"Whatever the main cause is for the dismissal of feelings and depth in modern society — remember that times have always changed. And they continue to change… Now, Alfred!!!" Mademoiselle Tinfoil (aka my grandma) said/ordered in her usual metallically raspy, yet charming tone of voice and continued, "Let the lights go on and let us enjoy this distinguished festivity of the coziest time of the year!"

And Clue-Less — pardon: Less-Clue — ardently raised his glass that was filled with the finest, royally brewed prosecco, while wiping his wet face with a small royally-embellished towel (after he had a little accident with the loosened siphon in the bathroom, causing it to disrupt the water-flow, pressuring him into diving head-first into the toilet bowl) and exclaimed in a manner worthy of the league of the greatest gentlemen: "Let there be light!"

Only reluctantly he grumbled under the thicket of his mustache, "And I'll delay the investigation once again…"

"What did you say?" my grandma asked with widened pupils.

"Nothing — just, eh… May the department's efforts be postponed until… whenever."

He raised his glass and poured the sparkling liquid into his mouth with a swift motion.

The end.

So, that's it, folks — Monsieur Speechless is signing off for today. Did you like it? Do you have any questions? If so — I'm unfortunately unavailable for the coming… years. I guess… We'll see each other. Have a good one!